


Here We Go Again

by Ovipositivity



Series: Folk [7]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Comedy, Gen, Human/Monster Society, Hybrids, Modern Era, fishman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 12:10:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17022372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ovipositivity/pseuds/Ovipositivity
Summary: Mamma mia! Your mom admits to you that you have some… supernatural blood running through your veins. But she doesn’t remember what kind, cause she was kinda a hoe.





	Here We Go Again

Five minutes. That’s what you told yourself as you sat down. You’d wait five minutes, and  _ that’s it _ . You could already tell this was going to be a waste of a day, and you were too hungover to spend any more time than you had to in this fancy-ass restaurant.

It wouldn’t have been your first choice (or your second, or your third…) but he had suggested it. “I work nearby,” his email had said, and while he hadn’t specified  _ where _ exactly, this part of the city was shadowed by the silvery, glittering towers of finance and capital. So: a lunchtime meeting at Tablestakes, one of the most exclusive bistros in the city. It would almost be worth chasing down another dead-end here, if it weren’t for your blinding headache.

You waved off the waiter when he appeared and tried to put your scattered thoughts in order. This was the fourth meeting, was it? Or the fifth? You loved your mom, and whatever she said, you didn’t think you were any the worse for wear for growing up in a single-parent household. She had always been attentive and caring, and despite how hard she worked to keep the two of you fed, she always made time for you. Father figures? There’d been a few, but even as a child you’d understood that none of them were “dad.” “Dad” was out there, somewhere, swimming up from the depths of your imagination when you were lonely or frustrated. He had a beard, maybe. Bright white teeth. Glasses with steel frames or plastic, hair brown or black or blonde. 

Fangs? You hadn’t imagined that. Or fur. Or scales. Or hooves. So when your mom had tearfully sat you down and said “We need to talk about your father…” well, the shock had taken a while to get over. You weren’t mad, like she’d feared. You were excited! A monster dad! (”Don’t call him that! He was a gentleman! They all were!”)

The trouble is, which monster? Your mom had never been too choosy. “I’ve got love in my heart for the whole world!” she always said. Boy, had you cringed once you’d realized what that meant. In any case, “the whole world” it may not have been, but the list of possibles was long enough to keep you busy for quite a while. 

At first it had been fun. Chasing down leads, playing PI, hoping with each new meeting that you’d find some kind of connection, some spark that had been missing from your life. Something you hadn’t even realized you’d lost. After six months, though, it was just another thing you had to do. You weren’t even excited anymore. You kept going out of brute stubbornness, and if and when you  _ did _ meet your dad, you weren’t sure whether you would hug him or punch him in the nose.

If he had one.

Four minutes and thirty five seconds. You put your phone away, sighed, and took a last sip of your water. It was a hot day, might as well hydrate before you–

A shadow fell over your table. As you looked up, a gurgling hiss filled your ears, a hydraulic sound like a piece of construction equipment. You grimaced at the sudden loudness.

The man standing over you is wearing an exquisitely tailored suit maybe three or four years out of fashion, navy blue with thin white pinstripes. His patent leather shoes shine like he’s just stepped out of the TV– one of those classic programs where the little girl tapdances up the stairs with the older guy. One look at this man tells you he won’t be tapdancing anywhere. He looks serious to the point of solemnity, like an undertaker. A little golden fish pin in his lapel breaks the monotony of the suit. That, and the wave motif on his royal blue tie, are the only hints that something like a personality might exist under there.

His skin, what little of it you can see, is sea-green and shines– no,  _ glistens–  _ in the lamplight. His head is tall and hairless, though you can see ridges, like fins, running along the top. They twitch and rustle with every breath. Around his neck is what looks like a brace, like they give people who’ve been in bad accidents. Thick glass pods ring it like beads, each one full of water. As he breathes, you can see the pods fill with bubbles that vent through tiny valves– that’s the hiss you heard. He does it again, and the water in his breathing gear churns up into agitated froth.

His expression is unreadable, though how much of that is down to biology and how much to an excellent poker face, you can’t tell. His nose is tiny, just a couple of slits in his face, but eyes are wide, almost bulging. They look like pearls, shimmering with pellucid, multicolored patterns. As you watch, translucent nictitating membranes slide across them and back, so quick that you’d miss it if you hadn’t been looking. Is that a blink? An expression of surprise? What?  His mouth is slightly open in a very human expression of surprise. You can see needle teeth in there, a  _ forest _ of needle teeth, but when he speaks the voice is surprisingly cultured. There’s a hint of an accent there– Oxford? and a tiny slur, which you figure it would be rude to comment on.  “Apologies for my…  _ hm _ … tardiness,” he says. There’s a pause in there, a little glottal stop that comes with a tiny hiss and rattle. “Please be…  _ hm _ … seated. I think we have a lot to talk…  _ hm _ … about.” You look at those teeth and think of your own, perfectly square and ordinary. You think of your smooth skin and the hair you can’t seem to tame and you think  _ no way. No way in the world. No way on earth. _ But… there have been dreams, haven’t there? Dreams of vast, warm, shallow seas, and cities grown out of the living rock. Dreams of a time before life dredged itself out onto the pitiless, baking shore. And you’ve always loved to swim…

You sigh and reach for the wine list. Maybe today won’t be a waste after all.


End file.
